Fall of the Zodiac
by VioletHeart3899
Summary: Book 2 of The Zodiac Trilogy. The universe has been saved from Weirdmageddon, but at a tragic cost. Now, the residents of Gravity Falls are still struggling to cope with the aftermath . . .
1. Broken-Hearted

_**"Grief does not change you . . . it reveals you."**_

 _ **-John Green**_

* * *

The mood was somber at the funeral home, which wouldn't have been unusual if the family who ran it wasn't usually so cheerful. But the couple so used to working with death had recently suffered a death of their own.

"I dressed him."

"Yeah?"

"Over here."

Robbie was sixteen, a typical teenager—moody, rebellious, interested in darkness and whatnot—yet the circumstances of his death were anything but. Even his own parents didn't know exactly what had happened to him and the others. No one did.

"What do you think?"

He was in a gray sweater vest with a black tie and slacks.

Greg Valentino was taken aback. " . . . He looks so grown up . . . but . . . he also looks so much . . . _younger_ . . . "

Janice nodded. "That's what I was thinking . . . I miss the days when he used to let us dress him like this."

A slight smile broke across Greg's face. "Can you imagine what he'd say if he saw what he's wearing right now?"

Janice couldn't help but chuckle. " _Mom! Are you serious? I wouldn't be caught_ dead _in this outfit!_ " They both laughed softly.

" . . . I hadn't thought about that," she sighed. "Do you suppose I should change him?"

Greg shrugged.

"I thought about putting him in that hoodie he always wore, but . . . " She was holding it in her arms. " . . . he just always seemed so . . . so _sad_ whenever he had it on . . . "

Greg wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Nah, I think we should hold on to the hoodie . . . I-I'm sure he wouldn't mind, just to . . . y'know . . . "

"Just to remember him by . . . " She dried her eyes with a sleeve.

They stood quietly for several minutes. He'd complained of insomnia for years, but now he looked as if he was finally sleeping well.

"When did it happen?"

Greg turned to his wife. "Hm?"

"He used to be our little ball of sunshine . . . when did he get so . . . so _sad_?"

Greg sighed and shrugged. "Probably around thirteen, if I had to estimate. That's usually when the hormones hit hard . . . I was the same way for several years when I was young."

"Really?"

"Yeah . . . I was actually pretty depressed all through high school and college. About that time that I was really hit with the inevitability and permanence of death for the first time. Kinda has a way of bumming a kid out, y'know?"

Janice blinked. "I never knew that . . . "

"Yeah. By the time we met I had my life all figured out, though, and I wasn't having problems anymore. I never really thought about it, but I guess that might have something to do with how I got interested in the funeral business in the first place. Pretty ironic, in retrospect."

"How come you never told me?"

He shrugged. "I guess I kinda forgot about it. I mean, you can't exactly forget about something like that, but . . . I guess it just wasn't at the front of my mind, y'know?"

"Yeah . . . "

There was silence for a while.

"Greg?"

"Yes?"

"How long have we been in business?"

"The funeral home?"

"Yes."

He scratched the back of his head. "Gosh, I think . . . twenty years? Yeah, going on twenty years, hard as it is to believe . . . "

"Twenty years is a long time."

Greg nodded.

"And, I've been thinking lately . . . maybe we should take a break."

"A break?"

"Not forever, probably, of course. And not right away, especially with how busy we are right now. I've just been thinking, with everything that's happened lately . . . "

Greg scratched his chin. "Hm, a break . . . you have always said that you wanted to see the catacombs under Paris."

Janice chuckled. "Well yes, but . . . I was thinking maybe we could use a break from death. At least for a little while."

"Hm." Greg thought for a moment.

"You know something? I think you might be right. After we wrap everything up this week, I think we could use a break. For a little while, anyway." He wrapped his arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

And they continued to watch their son sleep.


	2. The Greatest Warrior

_**"Grief is not as heavy as guilt, but it takes more away from you."**_

 _ **-Veronica Roth**_

* * *

A dull buzzing cut the heavy fabric of his slumber.

Preston Northwest opened his eyes and cursed the blinding sunlight. Everything ached. He pushed himself up from the bed, only to crash back down. The sound of clanking glass bottles could be heard as he groped ineffectively at the sheets.

Groaning, he sat up again. As he looked around, the haze slowly cleared and he realized he wasn't in his bedroom.

It was his daughter's.

He threw himself down onto the bed again and loudly sobbed. His eyes stung with the pressure of a river run dry.

Why did she have to die? She was only thirteen, for God's sake! Not even thirteen, not for another month! He was going to get her another pony for her birthday! Why did she have to die?

Fatigue evened his breaths, and he shut his eyes, trying to remember . . .

 _That old man spray-painting a circle on the ground . . ._

 _"Do it, sweetie! Do the one thing no one in our family's ever done. Touch the hillbilly . . . "_

 _They all started glowing, and everyone ran out . . ._

God, why did he have to run? Why didn't he stay and protect her? He didn't know what exactly had killed her, but if it was that triangular hellspawn . . .

But it couldn't have been, could it? He'd turned the town into a living nightmare, and everything changed back to normal before they found them. So they must have defeated him. So what the devil had killed them?

He remembered the unnatural blue glow . . . could that have had something to do with it? That circle was apparently an ancient prophecy, and those sorts of things tended to require some kind of sacrifice . . .

But if that was the case, why would they have gone through with it? Why would _she_ have gone through with it? Surely there must have been another way to stop that monster, one that wouldn't have cost them their lives! Had he taught her nothing about self-preservation?

Unless, of course . . .

He shot up from the bed. " _No_ . . . she wouldn't . . . why would she? She had a great life! I gave her a great life! I gave her everything she wanted! I was a good father . . . "

Pangs of doubt rang at the back of his mind. He tried to shake off the feeling.

"I _was_ a good father . . . I **_am_** a good father . . . I _**AM**_ a good father . . . !"

A jingling sound in his suit pocket broke his concentration. He reached in, but wished he hadn't as his hand went cold at the sensation of metal. Slowly, he opened his hand to reveal a small brass bell.

 _"Pacifica Elise Northwest! Stop this instant! We have a reputation to uphold!"_

His ears began to ring. "No . . . **_no!_** "

" _Our family name is broken!"_

 _"You dare to disobey us?"_

The ringing grew more intense . . .

 _"Dingally-dingally! Is this bell broken?"_

Something snapped, and his blood went from running cold to boiling. He rose from the bed with a yell and thrust the bell to the ground. He stomped on it again and again, until it was nothing more than a clump of dented metal.

After several minutes, his ragged breathing steadied, only to become erratic once more as he fell back onto the bed and buried his face in his hands.

She was dead. And it was probably his fault. And even if it wasn't, it might as well have been. And there was nothing he could do about it.

"Preston, dear! Come down to breakfast!"

He looked up at the ceiling and sniffed. He didn't want to get up. He didn't feel like getting up. He wasn't even hungry. But he couldn't very well stay in the dark in Pacifica's room all day, could he? Slowly, he pushed himself up from the bed with a groan and trudged to the bathroom to wash his face.

With a deep breath, he went out to face the world again.


	3. The Twinkle in His Eye

_**"I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil."**_

 _ **-J.R.R. Tolkien**_

* * *

"When are you going to open the lot again?"

Bud Gleeful sat up on the couch and shrugged. "I don't know. I was thinking in a few days, maybe."

"It's been almost a week already."

He merely shrugged again.

Louise shook her head as she continued to vacuum. "You can't shut yourself in from the world forever, Charles."

 _Look who's talking_ , he mused, though he said nothing.

His wife had been surprisingly unemotional lately, though he might as well have expected that—she hadn't been quite right for years, after all. But something had changed in the last day or two; she seemed irritable, impatient.

"Are you alright, dear?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, you just seem a bit . . . _off_ , or something, I don't know . . . "

"You wanna talk about off?" She stopped vacuuming. "For days now you haven't left the house—heck, you've barely left the couch! You've hardly said two words to me unless I asked you a question!"

Bud's eyes went wide. " . . . Isn't a man allowed to grieve in his own home?"

"It's been a week, Charles. You really should have gotten over it by now . . . "

"Gotten over it?!" He rose to his feet. " _Gotten over it?!_ Louise . . . our son is **_dead!_** "

" _I know that!_ And that's why I'm relieved, and so should-"

" _Relieved?_ How could . . . for heaven's sake, Louise, Gideon was barely ten!"

"And for over nine of those years he was an absolute terror! I knew from the time he started walking that something was wrong with him!"

"There was _**nothing**_ wrong with our son!"

"Don't deny it, Charles, you know better than anyone what he was really like!"

"He was an _angel!_ "

"He was a **_demon!_** "

How could she say that about her own . . . Gideon would _never_ . . . yes, there was that one time at the election, but other than that . . . and that time with the giant robot that landed him in prison . . . but still . . . !

 _"I could buy and sell you, old man!"_

Bud's face fell. When had _that_ happened? And why hadn't he remembered it before? . . . Well, no matter, regardless of everything else . . .

"But he was still our son! Not to mention that he was a hero! He was a **_hero_** , Louise! He helped save the universe!"

"And because of that I can forgive him!" She inhaled sharply. "Barely, but I _can_ forgive him. But I can't forget what he did before, Charles. I _can't_ forget everything he did to us—to you! And you shouldn't either." With that she turned away, slamming the kitchen door behind her.

Bud stood frozen in the living room for a moment, his fists and face still clenched. Within seconds, though, his body slackened, and he ran into the bedroom and at once collapsed onto the bed.

He felt too numb to cry, too tired. He lifted his head slightly.

There was a framed photograph on the nightstand. A picture of a married couple, young and happy. On the woman's lap sat their one-year-old son, dressed in a baby blue sailor suit that complemented his white pompadour and cherubic smile.

He rolled over, reached for the photo, and held it against his chest. His eyes shut, and slowly he drifted off to sleep, the muffled whirring of the vacuum still in the background.


	4. A View to the Past

**_"As my memory rests, but never forgets what I lost, wake me up when September ends . . . "_**

 ** _-Billie Joe Armstrong_**

* * *

The attic had a thick, musty smell, as if no fresh air had come in for several years. Which was probably true; he couldn't remember the last time he'd come up.

It was probably pointless for him to come up now, honestly. He probably wouldn't find anything. But he didn't really have much choice, seeing as Mom didn't have anything.

 _" . . . you say he's dead?"_

 _"Yeah. It's kinda weird, actually. No one knows exactly what happened. They're calling it natural causes. But yeah, he's dead."_

 _"Oh." Her tone was flat and dry._

 _"Anyway, I was wondering if you had any old clothes or anything of his for the service."_

 _"What about the clothes he died in?"_

 _"Well, yeah, there's those, but . . . I just wanted to see if you had anything else."_

 _"No, I don't. I got rid of his things a long time ago."_

 _"Oh."_

 _There was an awkward pause._

 _"So, the service is this Saturday."_

 _"Okay."_

 _"Are you-"_

 _"Probably not. I've got a lot going on right now."_

 _"Oh . . . "_

 _"Tate, sweetie, can I tell you something?"_

 _"Sure, Mom."_

 _She sighed. " . . . If you really want to know the truth, as far as I'm concerned, your father's been dead to me for thirty years."_

Admittedly, she wasn't wrong. If there was ever a time when Dad wasn't a smelly, gibberish-spouting lunatic, Tate couldn't remember it. In fact, he'd be lying if he said that he didn't initially consider leaving him in the clothes he died in, like Mom suggested. But something about those flea-bitten rags . . . he'd be lying if he didn't say that didn't feel right.

He wove his way between old fishing poles and boxes of Stoic Monthly issues to get to the back of the attic. If there was anything up there, that's where it would be. Of course, the building was only about ten years old, and how far back would he be going if he did find any of Dad's old clothes? Thirty years? He would've been a kid then.

He would've been a kid . . . Dad wasn't really always crazy, was he? Something told him no, but . . .

 _"YROO! XRKSVI! GIRZMTOV! Hehehehehehehe!"_

He shuddered. He'd never liked thinking about Dad's episodes.

He reached the older part of storage, the things he'd brought when he moved out and built the shop. Of course, he hadn't opened those boxes in years . . . was he really that much of a pack rat? He'd never thought about it before.

Most of the boxes were labeled in Mom's handwriting. _Winter Clothes. Useless Junk. Family Mementos . . ._

Had he been close to Dad, as a kid? Sure, Dad was was a babbling maniac; but he was still his Dad. And he was his son, dang it! Had they ever done any of the usual father-son bonding stuff, the fishing, baseball games and whatnot? Didn't they ever share any happy moments together . . . ?

But that didn't matter. Dad was dead. Dad was going in the ground on Saturday. Why dig up more reasons to grieve?

The _Family Mementos_ box turned up nothing but some antique china pieces and a few raggedy plush toys. Why had Mom thought he'd ever need this stuff? He shut it again, stood up with a groan, and turned to head back downstairs.

There was another box in the corner. Unlabeled. He'd missed it when he'd come up. He quickly made his way across the attic and opened it.

There was a flashlight on top. The weirdest flashlight he'd ever seen, with a long skinny bulb, and a handle like a gun. _PROTOTYPE_ was etched on the side of it.

Under that was a white lab coat. A cursive _F_ was monogrammed on the tag in the back of the collar. What did _F_ stand for? Whose stuff was this?

The bottom of the box had a green square of floral-print fabric. He lifted it up. It was a shirt, with a pair of bellbottom jeans folded inside. No identification, but they'd stayed in remarkable shape for all the years in storage. He sniffed the shirt. It still smelled fresh. Like fresh-cut grass. Like fresh-cut grass on a blue-skied, sunny summer day. Like . . .

 _He toddled down the stairs to the basement. Most basements were dark and spooky, but theirs was brightly-lit, to see the scribbled chalk boards and papers scattered everywhere. He climbed up onto the stool at the end of the table._

 _"Hey, Dad. What'cha doin'?"_

 _His Dad looked over at him. A smile broke across his face. "Hey, Tater Tot. I'm just workin' on my newest invention."_

 _The contraption on the table had a long, skinny light bulb on the front._

 _"Is it a flashlight?"_

 _Dad laughed. "No, silly! We already have plenty of those."_

 _"Then what is it?"_

 _"Well . . . have you ever had something happen to you that made you really upset?"_

 _He thought for a moment. "Not really."_

 _"Well, if you did, this machine would help you feel better afterwards." He went back to his work._

 _"Oh." He didn't really see how a flashlight would help if something happened to make you upset. Unless that something had to do with the dark, but like Dad said, they already had plenty of flashlights._

 _He remembered why he'd come downstairs in the first place. He set his baseball glove on top of the table. "You wanna go out and play catch?"_

 _Dad looked at him again. He smiled. "Y'know somethin', son?" He slipped off his lab coat. "I've been thinkin' I could use a break. A game of catch sounds right good right about now." He grabbed his own mitt from on top of a filing cabinet._

 _They went back up the stairs together . . ._

A small smile spread across Tate's face.

Yep, this outfit would work just fine.


	5. Cool Under Pressure

_**"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power."**_

 _ **-Washington Irving**_

* * *

A cool breeze blew between the trees, filling the clearing with the scent of freshly-fallen pine needles. The golden light of the setting sun slanted in past the dark shadows of the branches. It was a beautiful day.

Shame the boys weren't here to see it. Might've put their minds at ease. But they'd all said they didn't want to come, and he certainly wasn't going to drag them along by force.

There was a smaller tree near the middle of the clearing. The others had probably been standing for centuries, but this one was no older than 23 years. Exactly 23 years, in fact. He remembered planting it as if it was yesterday.

Yes, he remembered trekking into the woods, just the two of them, towing a tiny pine sapling in a little red wagon. They'd just moved into town. The tree was new, like their vows, but it would stand forever, like their love. He remembered the smell of the fresh soil, the sound of their laughter, the feeling of her silky auburn hair as they embraced and kissed . . .

He hadn't come to this part of the woods in years. In fact, he'd tried his very best to avoid it. He'd been alone last time, too, of course; the boys were little then, and even Wendy was only nine . . .

He sucked in a breath and dried his eyes before they could get wet. No, he had to be strong.

He had a wooden box, hand-carved and gold-trimmed. In his broad hands, he held the small chest delicately, as if the slightest movement would shatter it.

This wasn't his first time bringing it here. Six years ago. The last time he'd come. In fact, he was practically at that day again . . .

No. _No._ Be _strong._

He knelt before the young tree. He didn't want to open the box. He truly didn't want to. But he had to. He had no choice. His large fingers gingerly fiddled with the clasp and slowly opened the lid.

A dull black powder filled the box.

His breathing turned ragged, and he choked back a sob. _No._ He had to be strong. He had to . . .

He set the box down and pounded the ground beside him. His fists clutched the grass. He tore it up violently. His breathing hitched, and he yelled. Like an animal, he shut his eyes and yelled and slammed his hands on the ground again and again.

His blood boiled. His face burned. His eyes stung. Hot tears escaped his eyes and seared his cheeks.

A cool breeze blew through the clearing. The wind came in, and it softly stroked his face. His breaths steadied. His heart slowed.

He planted his palms firmly on the ground, arched his back and neck, and let his tears flow freely. What was the point of holding them in? The boys weren't there. And Wendy wasn't there. Who did he need to be strong for? Who did he need to hide his pain from?

His beard was getting soaked, and the ground was turning to mud, but he didn't care. He wasn't going to hold it in anymore. He let himself heave sob after sob as his eyes rained endlessly.

After what felt like forever, his body grew tired and heavy. He dried his raw eyes with a calloused hand and looked down again. The box still sat open.

His chest rose and fell with a sigh. He scooped up a small handful of his daughter's ashes and slowly sprinkled them at the base of the tree, just as he had six years earlier with her mother's. He continued until the box was empty.

As he took another deep breath, the wind surged again. He closed his eyes and allowed the cool hand to dry his cheeks. His breaths steadied. His heart slowed.

He opened his eyes. The faint twinkles of emerging stars shone through the lavender spread across the edges of the dusky sky. And he sat there for a while, before the tree, in the perfect peace of the clearing.


	6. How?

**_"Even the darkest night will end and the sun will shine."_**

 _ **-Victor Hugo**_

* * *

The song of the forest birds filled the still evening air.

Maria Ramirez rose from the sofa and turned off the television. Her slippers swished softly as she shuffled across the living room carpet and down the hardwood floor of the hall.

She stopped in the doorway across from her bedroom. The light was still on. As her gaze swept across the dinosaur posters and the unkempt race-car bed, she smiled.

" _Buenas noches,_ Soos." She switched the light off. "Sweet dreams."

Barely a week had come and gone since her grandson's passing, yet she could not help but feel strangely at peace. It was an unexpected sensation, to be sure, but not unwelcome.

Of course, it hadn't started immediately. The news first struck her with a deep sorrow and heartbreak: her _mijo_ , her Jesús, gone at the young age of twenty-two. She had raised him alone practically since his birth, and even when he didn't know it, she had been there for him at each and every moment in his life.

Every moment but his last.

But this was not the first time she had felt such heartache. No, it had come to her many times over the course of her life: when she was a girl of nineteen, and her parents were lost in an accident; less than two weeks after Soos' birth, when his mother, her daughter, fell to a terrible infection; and her husband . . . actually, not her husband. No one mourns the wicked, so the saying went. But she was indeed quite familiar with the pain of loss.

Yet those times, it had taken her weeks, even months, to recover. But now, in less than a week's time, she found herself overcome by serenity. How was that possible? She would've thought the pain would be even deeper—and indeed it was at first—yet so was the peace.

She had always believed in Heaven; in her darkest times, this was her one comfort, that she would see her loved ones again someday. Yet Soos . . . Soos was closer. In the heart of her heart, she could feel it: he was still there.

And if he was still there, what reason did she have to be sorrowful? _El muerto al pozo y el vivo al gozo,_ after all. To the dead, internment, and to the living, enjoyment.

As she climbed into bed and laid her head down, the thought struck her that Soos' girlfriend had yet to hear the news. She lived in Portland. Melody, that was her name, something like that.

Melody would be heartbroken, naturally. She would need time to heal, probably more than a week. But Maria would be there for her. Yes, she would take Melody's hand and try to share the peace she felt with her. And she would share with her the old proverb: _Quien con la esperanza vive, alegre muere._ He who lives with hope dies happy. And Soos had lived his life full of hope.

She smiled. "Good night, Soos. I'll see you soon."

She shut her eyes.


	7. A Pine Falls in Oregon

_**"Sometimes, only one person is missing, and the whole world seems depopulated."**_

 _ **-Alphonse de Lamartine**_

* * *

It was a tired old town, that's what he'd thought to himself when he'd first arrived. Of course, any suburb would seem tired compared to the constant hustle and bustle of New York, but this one seemed especially small and quiet, its people especially close-knit.

Maybe that's why there so many at the funeral. He had to admit, he'd expected it to be just him and his son and daughter-in-law—anyone else who would've come was already there, after all—but it seemed like the whole town had shown up.

His daughter-in-law was inconsolable. "It's just not fair!" she'd gasp between sobs, " . . . all we wanted was for them to get some fresh air! . . . How were we supposed to know they'd _die?!_ And right before their thirteenth birthday, no less!"

Alex was tearful, too, but he seemed to be trying to hold himself together as best he could, at least for his wife's sake. Now, he thought, it was clear why Alex hadn't wanted to give the eulogy.

Too bad that responsibility had fallen on him.

 _"You're the one who was closest to all four of them,"_ Alex had said. _"Heck, I hardly ever knew either of my uncles! It would mean so much more coming from you . . . "_

He should've said no. He was never good with words, he'd always hated public speaking. He was a numbers guy. Balancing a corporate checkbook, that he could do, but he had no idea how to write a eulogy, much less give one. He should've told his son that he was already coming all the way across the country at the drop of a hat for a funeral, wasn't that enough for him? He should've said no . . . He should've . . .

He should've offered to take Dipper and Mabel for the summer. Sure, he worked a lot, but he could've taken some time off. Maybe it wouldn't have been the "fresh air" their parents had in mind, but at least they wouldn't be cooped up at home. They probably would've loved to see New York . . . and maybe, if they'd been with him instead of Stan and Ford . . .

He looked up the aisle. The way was clear. He took a deep breath and began to slowly make his way across the parlor.

When was the last time he'd seen the kids? He remembered calling them at Christmas, but they must've spoken at least once since then. Surely it hadn't been eight months since the last time he'd talked to his own grandchildren . . . had it? And try as he might, he couldn't immediately recall how long it had been since he'd visited them, either. A few days, about once every year, that was all. Maybe that was why, when he'd sat down to write the damn thing, he couldn't help but feel like he didn't really know them enough to do it right . . .

But he did know his grandkids! Dipper . . . Dipper had always been a smart kid. And Mabel . . . she was so happy all the time, no matter what. She'd used to send him those handmade sweaters for every holiday, even the ones she made up, even though he never actually wore them.

But there was more to them than that, he knew. In their spare time they liked to . . . to . . . to play their favorite game, which was . . . and when they grew up they wanted to be . . .

He stopped. That was it. He couldn't think of anything else to say about his grandkids. Just that they were a smart kid and a happy knitter, nothing else. And that they were twins, but that much was obvious.

He continued walking up the aisle, his legs heavy as molasses as each step seemed to strike his heart like an axe.

He'd thought that maybe it would be easier to write about his brothers. After all, they'd been in his life since he was eight. But even then he'd struggled to come up with anything substantial.

Stanford was a smart kid, too, and always really shy. A lot like Dipper, actually; they probably would have gotten along great. And Stanley . . . Stanley had "personality," that's what Ma had always said. And, from what he could recall, that personality was marked above all else with courage and persistence. Sure, maybe Stan wasn't quite as bright as Ford, but you'd never meet a more devoted brother.

He chuckled bitterly to himself. _A more devoted brother . . . if only . . ._

It wasn't his fault that the age gap was so big. He couldn't help it that, as twins, they were naturally closer to each other. They were Ma's boys, anyway, while he'd always taken more after Dad.

But he could have tried to make up for that. He could have come home to visit more often while they were still kids. He could have reached out to them after their falling-out—though Ford was hardly in any mood to talk about it, or anything else, for that matter; and Dad had made it clear that the whole thing was Stan's own fault in the first place—but they were both his brothers, and he still could have reached out to them.

After that, he'd never spoken to Stanley again. The last he'd ever heard of him was over 30 years ago, when they found out that he had been killed in a fiery car crash out here in Oregon—though judging from recent events, there had clearly been some mistake back then. And as for Stanford, they talked once in a blue moon, but they didn't see each other face-to-face again until the day Dipper and Mabel were born.

 _" . . . a bowtie at a hospital! Sometimes you amaze me with what a total square you are . . . "_

He'd always thought that something had been . . . _off_ about Ford that day. But then again, they'd hardly talked in the last 30 years. Ford could've changed . . . people could change . . . most of the time. He remembered how, when they were finally let back into the patient room, Stanford had fought with him to hold the twins. Back then he'd thought, c _an't he let go of them for two minutes?_ But maybe the problem was with himself all along: maybe he was too used to letting go.

He noticed, just then, that it seemed like he had been walking for hours, yet he wasn't even halfway across the parlor. The room wasn't that big. There was no one in the way. What was taking him so long? It was as if time were some how distorted, as if he were in a trance or dream-like state . . .

The thought flashed like a thunderbolt through his mind. _A dream . . . of course!_ Why hadn't he thought about it before? It was an absurd notion, really, that both of his younger brothers _and_ both of his grandchildren should all suddenly drop dead for no apparent reason. And he'd heard that the coroners had called it "natural causes"—natural, his ass!

None of this was real . . . they weren't dead! They weren't dead! Those caskets he had been making his way towards—empty, no doubt, and now that he was aware of the illusion, he knew it to be true for sure. All at once he felt lighter, and he hastened the rest of the way.

The caskets weren't empty.

He stood paralyzed for a moment. A final, sharp blow struck his heart, and a long-frozen stream of emotion slowly began to crack. They were dead . . . they were _dead_ . . . Dipper, Mabel, Stanley, Stanford . . .

Sherman Pines fell to his knees with a wail.


	8. The End?

**16-19-6-9-19-5**  
 **10-19-2-19-6**  
 **20-15-19**


End file.
